At 3:16 am, by the light of the full moon shining through our bedroom window, I am straightening out my husband’s sock drawer. Serenaded by the sound of his breathing as he sleeps in our bed a few feet behind me, I begin sorting.

Although it may seem odd, it’s actually comforting doing some small thing that might make his days easier. For a few moments, it masks the helplessness I feel at not being able to turn myself into the miracle medicine that will make him well.

So I stack socks.

Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, I pair off the socks by color and occasion. The dressy black ones that he wore with his tux when he played the dapper Ken Gorman in “Rumors” are his favorites.

I touch the black pair with gold trombones to my cheek. I gave them to him when he starred in “The Music Man.” The song plays in my head.

Next to them, I place the somber grey socks he wore when he performed at the Pasadena Playhouse to commemorate Holocaust Remembrance Day. I hear the lines as his character apologizes for the atrocities. I see the pained look on his face.

Ahhh…here are the neutral colored socks with multi-colored memories. He wore them on our carriage ride through a vineyard on our anniversary a few years ago. I can taste the sweetness of the wine from our shared bottle and hear the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves.

The white socks he now wears for his physical therapy sessions take up two piles. Lots of exercising as he tries to get stronger.

Soon the sock stacks are circled around me, and I picture George’s smiling face imaged atop each pile. I get up on my knees so I am high enough to see him. He smiles as he sleeps.

After tucking the socks neatly into the drawer, I slip into bed and fall asleep next to my smiling husband.

“Did you get some sleep?” George asks me in the morning.

“I must have,” I tell him. “I had the most amazing dream about socks.”

Email Patricia Bunin at patriciabunin@sbcglobal.net. Follow her on Twitter @PatriciaBunin.